


Man We Was Lonely

by Savageandwise



Series: Hear Me, My Lover [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hospital, M/M, McLennon, Referenced Suicide Attempt, What if?, Work of fiction, first person POV, not my take on reality, uh...angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 08:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15945242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: In the hospital after Paul's suicide attempt, John and Paul are forced to rethink their decisions and their relationship.





	Man We Was Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to my fic 'Get Well Soon'. I had a prompt asking for a sequel of sorts. I'm not sure that's what you were thinking of. But here you go, anon.

You're so hot and cold, baby. So black and white. When you're hot, you're hot. Too hot to handle. You spend every minute at my bedside like you did with Yoko when she miscarried. And, fuck if I don't love every minute of it.

Linda doesn't love it. She's frightened. She wants to ask me why I did it. Was it because of you? But she's afraid of the answer. Instead she acts like you're a guest who has outstayed his welcome. She says: “Tell him to go home to her. I miss you, Paul. I need you. Heather and the baby need you. You should be resting, you nearly died.”

I tell her I can't. How can I tell you to leave me? When that's what pushed us over the edge in the first place? And I did die. I died and I heard your voice. You gave me the answer. The second day in they have to drag you away anyway. 

“Withdrawal,” Yoko whispers in my ear in that small voice of hers. She's here ignoring my bandages, ignoring my pain. She's making it all about herself as usual. “I never wanted this.”

I tell her I know it. But that's a lie. John, you terrify me. You're in pieces, raving and bathed in sweat. You're screaming for one more hit. How could you ever pump yourself full of this rubbish? How could you do this to me?

“I'm not staying for this. I can't,” she says. She's crying, fat tears like a kid.

“You gave him this poison. It wasn't me. Sure as hell wasn't Cynthia.”

She shudders at Cyn's name. “I thought it was her. But it was you,” Yoko cries. “It was you all along.”

“What was me?” I ask. What?

“He has you now. You're listening now. Well, I'm going back to New York then. I'm going home.”

She's crying like her heart's breaking and all I can think is: good riddance. My wounds hurt. My skin hurts. I need you like a balm. You know what? Fuck you. Fuck this. I get out of bed, my gown flapping open and walk past my wife. She calls out to me over and over. But I just pretend I can't hear her. They don't want to let me in to see you so I hold up my bandaged wrists like they're my M.B.E. insignia. Like a badge of honour. You're in there covered in vomit, wild-eyed and calling out for your mother. When I sit down on the edge of the bed you put your head in my lap.

“I only did it because I thought you were going to leave me. I only did it because you didn't love me!” you cry, your hands tangled in my gown.

I don't know who you're talking to. Me? Julia? I'm so tired, John. Tired to death. I wish to God I'd bled out because I have no strength left. I lie down on your bed with my arms around your head. We're so broken, John. How did we get this way?

When I wake up you're you again. Bathed and combed, sitting up reading the paper. “Good morning,” you say conversationally. “I love you.”

I just stare at you. You think ‘I love you’ makes it all okay? You think ‘I love you’ can knit flesh back together? Recover lost pints of blood? You think it can fix everything we ruined?

“I love you,” I say anyway. My head is light, those butterflies are merciless, my stomach is under attack.

I've never seen you smile like this. The joy shining through the cracks in your face. “Well, I'll be honest, Paul. That's a relief.” 

You toss the paper on to the bed. On the front page is a photo of you, crazed and shouting. Linda holding onto your arm. ‘McCartney Suicide Scare. Lennon Storms Hospital. Lover's Row?’

I start to laugh. Just softly at first then louder and you're laughing too like it's an infectious disease and you've caught it off me. And then we're holding each other, in spasms of mirth. They come in with a doctor to check on us. You lean in close and whisper in my ear that you wish we were alone. I can't deny the thrill I feel at your words. It terrifies me. Because I've already given so much up. Because I don't know how to wrap my head around it. 

“You tried to kill yourself,” you say in that brutally direct way. “If that's not giving it all up... what is?”

I know I tried to kill myself. But it doesn't feel like me. It doesn't feel like something I did. I keep wanting to say: Oh, that's a shame. Poor man. Like someone else drank himself into a stupor and cut his veins with a razor. Not me. I try to explain how days ago you were still ignoring me. How your casual cruelty cut me deeper than that razor. How only yesterday I was slitting my wrists while you slept beside Yoko. I don't think I can do it. I can't be with you, this close to you. How can you say you love me? When you treated me like garbage? I think I'll get out of your bed. I'll get up in a moment when I get my strength again.

I wake to the flash of cameras. You've got one hand shielding my face, the other pulling up the blanket to cover me.

“Piss off! You vermin!” you shout. “Get the fuck out! Don't you have a conscience?”

Apparently not. The next front page is bound to be us curled around each other in one hospital bed. That's the moment George chooses to come round, Ringo peering behind him.

“Is this how it is now?” George asks, walking to the foot of the bed. He's holding a box that smells of chocolate. “Lennon McCartney hospital love nest,” he drawls acidly.

Ringo is holding a bunch of flowers. “Can't you afford your own bed, Paul?” he asks, with a tight grin. 

You let out a nervous explosion of laughter. Under the blanket you take my hand. I feel light-headed with relief. I stare at their pale, anxious faces, their eyes full of questions. 

“Is there…? Is there any truth…?” George holds up the paper emblazoned with your photograph. Your angry face, worried eyes, your anguished mouth.

I don't know what to say to them. You give a hopeless little shrug. We could turn it into a joke. We could point out the press always lies. We could tell them the truth.

“You know how it is…” you start to say, your thumb stroking the back of my hand as if to reassure me.

I realise we can still deny everything. Relief comes in sickening waves and all at once something breaks in me like a dam and it comes rushing out.

“It's true. It's all true. Yes. We're… we were lovers. It's true,” I blurt out. I'm dizzy, dizzy with it. I'm high with truth.

Beside me you've gone dead silent but you don't remove your hand from mine. George just stares from me to you and back again. Ringo is shuffling his feet. 

“We figured,” George says drily. “It was quite obvious in the touring years, wasn't it Ritchie?”

Ringo gives him a nervous little nod. The rest of the time he's staring at me like he's afraid I'm going to vanish before his eyes. I steal a glance at you, the muscles in your face are tensed like you're about to strike.

“You didn't… you didn't think you were hiding it from us did you? The last few months alone… the melodrama… the over the top mood swings. You two…But I never thought… no Brian to fix it this time either...” 

They knew about us. They knew about Brian smoothing things over whenever anyone seemed to be catching on. We thought we were so clever, you and I. For a moment it's you and me on one side and them two on the other. And maybe, I think, no one can fix this. Then Ringo walks over to my side of the bed and sits down. 

“I was so relieved to hear you'd pulled through all right. You gave us such a fright!” he says, giving my shoulder an awkward pat. 

He puts the flowers down in my lap, like I've just won a prize. “I wasn't sure what to bring,” he admits. 

“Christ, he didn't have a baby. He tried to top himself,” you say. 

You won't let it go. Everyone else is dancing around me like I'm made of glass. You won't let me forget it. It got so bad I slit my wrists. No. I won't think about it. I won't.

George hesitates a moment and then sits down on the bed too and we could be in any hotel room anywhere in the world. My heart hurts. I can't seem to speak. Someone tells a joke and we're laughing again. All that's missing is the music. We're so close again it frightens me. I make an offhand comment to that effect.

“The four-headed monster. That's what Jagger called us. Four-headed monster,” George says. 

We open the box and tear bits of cake off like we're unruly children until the nurse tells George and Ringo visiting time is over. I almost forget we’re in a hospital when she walks in. I almost forget why I'm here. The nurse stays in the room even after the other two leave. 

“Come along, Mr. McCartney. You really need to go back to your own room. Your wife has gone home. She said she'll be back in the morning. Mr. Lennon… your wife…” she pauses, looks at you with a sharp expression. “She says she won't leave until you speak to her.” 

You ask her to leave us alone for a few minutes and after a moment's hesitation she does.

“She's a John-girl for sure,” I say with a weak smile.

You grasp my face between your hands and I can't think anymore. I can't move. 

“John,” I whisper. 

I manage to shake my head a little but you pull me closer rub your nose against mine. I don't know why I'm trying to stop this from happening, when all I can think about is kissing you. I turn my head away.

“What if someone…” I whisper into your shoulder.

“Shhh.” You stroke my cheek, your thumb brushing my mouth. 

For people with enough money to do whatever we want, we spend so much time denying ourselves the things we can't live without. It's ingrained. “I can't,” I say anyway. I spend so much time denying myself the things I can't live without.

I know you think everything is different now but it isn't. I know you think my brush with death is a turning point in the road. For you this makes sense. I almost die and then we live happily ever after. It can't work. It won't work, you and I. We shook our world till we broke it. 

You drop your hand, wrap it around my wrist gingerly. “It's okay. Go back to your room, Paul. Get some rest. I have to talk to Yoko.”

You help me out of the bed and the nurse takes me to my room. There are flowers on every surface but the bed, drawings from Heather on the wall. I get into bed and take the pills the nurse gave me. I'm so angry, John. I'm so angry with you. I can't remember why I ever wanted to die. I'm so angry I still want you. Still love you. It's still you. I need to stay alive so I can tell you how angry I am.

The door opens with a soft creak. She's standing there like a ghost, her black hair falling about her face in a tangled mess. Her eyes are red and swollen, her mouth a tight circle of pain. What did you say to her? What did you say? John? She gives me a small nod. It feels like goodbye, good luck. Here's the torch. May it bring you joy. You left her, didn't you? Except, what do I do now? What do you expect me to do? Leave my wife? Leave my children?

I’m half asleep. High on painkillers. I remember kissing you that first time. I can feel it now. The soft, sloppy pressure of your lips on mine. The hesitation, then the resolution, then the hesitation. Stop. Go. Stop. Go, go, go. Your hands sliding over my back, fists in my shirt.

“Ah, ah, fuck it, Paul. I don't even care anymore.” 

Good. Because neither do I, I don't care. Just don't stop kissing me. Don't stop. I don't care anymore. I don't care.

You're already gone when I wake the next morning. I think it was a dream until I see the paper. There we are. Splashed on the front page. Your hand in front of my face, the gesture so intimate, so tender there's no denying it. Linda is here to take me home. Her eyes are bloodshot, her clothes rumpled like she slept in them. She doesn't say anything about the paper, she just collects my things and signs the release form.

“It's a circus out there,” she says. “Are you ready for it?”

I just stare at her. How can I leave her? How can I do it? How can you expect it of me?

“Babe? Paul? Are you set?” 

No time like the present. It's a warm day. We step out of the building and into the sunshine, into a sea of photographers all clamouring for me to look at them.

“Linda!” a reporter calls out. “Linda, did you know the truth about your husband's relationship with John Lennon? Did you marry him to cover it up?”

“Paul! Paul! Is it true you tried to kill yourself? Was it because of John?”

“Macca! Over here! Is your relationship with John the reason the band split up?”

“Are you lovers? How long has it been going on?”

“You're both going to hell! You know that?”

“Buggery is a mortal sin!”

“Paul! Are you the father of Linda's baby? Was it all a lie?”

“Too bad you didn't bleed to death!”

I walk ahead of Linda at a clipped pace, dragging her behind me like a stuffed toy, she stumbles, tries to keep up. “Mal is just at the corner. It's alright,” she says soothingly.

“Please let us through now. Let us through. Thank you very much. I'll answer all your questions in an official statement. Thank you. Thank you. Please let us through,” I say calmly.

I sound so cold, so put together. Inside I'm screaming. I'm going mad. A million terrified thoughts swarming each other like bees. And where are you, John? Where did you vanish to? Are you somewhere shooting yourself full of poison again? That's not love, baby. Leaving me to deal with this. You can't say you love me then throw me to the wolves.

There's a car waiting at the corner but it's not mine. Mal isn't in the driver's seat. The backseat door opens abruptly and I drop Linda's hand.

“Paul,” you say from inside the car. “I have to speak with you.”

I can't hear the press anymore. I can't hear Linda calling me. How dramatic of you, John. How foolish. With all the bloody journos watching. My feet seem to carry me of their own accord. I step into the car and sit down beside you. You take my hands. I shouldn't let you but I do.

“I've left Yoko. It's over,” you say. “I can't be with her anymore. Because… you know why I can't be with her.”

All I can do is stare at you. It doesn't make any sense to me. The aquiline nose, the thick eyebrows. The colour of your eyes, the fringe of lashes. The line of your mouth, the nervous tongue darting between your lips. You're not making a lick of sense.

“Paul, are you listening? Are you listening to me? I want you to leave Linda. I want you to come with me.”

Oh, my love. What are you doing? What are you saying? 

“Fuck them. Fuck em. I want us to be together. Say you'll do it.” Your voice cracks.

Your hands are bruising my fingers. You lift them to your mouth, kiss them distractedly. Then you lean forward. Oh. The photographers outside the window. Oh, the flash like a lightning storm. The windows are tinted. They can't see you kiss me. Oh, you kiss me. Like you're suffocating without me. Like I'm the air you breathe. Every kiss pleads your case. And I kiss you back.

“Please. Please, Paul. Say you'll do it. Please.”

**Author's Note:**

> I always sort of wanted to explore what happened after 'Get Well Soon' but I worried it would be too ooc. I've been changing a lot of things in my own life and wanted to finally write this and just see where it would take me.
> 
> The title is a song from Paul's solo album 'McCartney'.
> 
> Thank you to Emma! Whereitwillgo! Sunqueen78! And to Twinka, my dear.
> 
> Let me know what you think!!! Comments mean a lot to writers. We breathe them like air.


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